


Fingerprints

by spacemonkey



Category: Metallica
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29626128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Lars knows that he should leave.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Fingerprints

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the grand ole year of 2008, lightly edited since. I don't remember what era this was supposed to be set in, though I imagine late 90s/early 2000s after rereading it?

Lars is talking, hands moving as he gesticulates his point, which he punctuates with a few pauses and a couple of thoughtful _um’_ s. It doesn’t take him long, though, to realize no one is really listening. Their eyes are drawn to his bicep, purple fingerprints on display. Quickly, Lars lowers his arm. His point isn’t as strong with it down, but he keeps it there, smiles tightly and tries to tell himself _I enjoyed that, I did_ as he continues to talk.  
  
He namedrops James, briefly at first, causing their faces light up, because James is _James_. Lars keeps bringing him up after that, each mention less flattering than the last. Soon enough, their smiles drop. He knows he should stop, that he’ll pay hell for it later, and eventually he does with a grimace.

As he leaves, he wonders if he should have kept talking, no matter the punishment he’ll receive when James finds out. _If_ James finds out. Maybe Lars should head back in there and tell them all the good things, take away the sting of the bad and watch their smiles shoot back up. Bring up how James smiles and falls down laughing when he’s happydrunk, staring like a fucking four-year-old as he waits for a hand up. And how Lars would always be dragged to the floor because he wasn’t strong enough to pull James up, and they’d end up a tangle, laugh and then go quiet.  
  
Lars misses those moments. Now, they’re covered up with purple fingerprints and nasty words. He helps cover them up, though.

He should go back inside and make those people laugh.  
  
He should do that.

He doesn’t.  
  


* * *

  
They’re both so fucking drunk that Lars could scream, lash out at James, leave his own marks and then just disappear.

Instead, he breathes in James' ear and waits, but not for long.  
  
“Huh?” Lars tightens his grip on James’ shoulder, nips at an earlobe, and slurs as he repeats, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

There's no reply. Maybe James doesn't want this at all, doesn't want _him_ anyway. Perhaps he's just after a warm body he can fuck and claim as his own. His mouth is slack and Lars straddles him, grinds down until James grips Lars' ass, pulling him closer, making him smile.

“Asshole,” he mutters, swaying. “Fucking asshole.”

James kisses him in response, shuts him up, sucking maddingly gently on Lars' tongue. Hands push up under his shirt to draw tiny circles against his stomach, softly at first, until the scrape of nails starts to sting.   
  
Those fingers are like ice and Lars whimpers, almost pulling away when his nipple ring is yanked. He _should_ pull away, leave, walk out of the room.

He should.  
  
But as the pace quickens and James makes encouraging little noises that sound like _please_ and _want_ , Lars finds the need to stay.  
  
There are more fingerprints, after, when James is asleep, naked and sprawled out on his bed. Lars watches him, expecting him to wake up with every little noise and movement, dreading the thought. Yet James stays asleep as if nothing could wake him.  
  
Just in case, Lars bites back what he was going to say and crosses the room. He climbs into bed, more sober than drunk now, and allows James to find him in his sleep. Wrap an arm around his waist and hold him there.  
  
Lars could leave.  
  
He _should_ leave. Say what he was going to say, wake James up and leave.  
  
Instead, he lies there quietly, listening and waiting for James’ next breath. Lars doesn’t tell James he hates him like he wants to, like he should. James always knew when he was lying anyway. Instead, Lars rolls over, murmurs, “We’re fucked,” and James mumbles something and pulls him closer.


End file.
